


Flying Cows Over Minrathous

by LadyNorbert



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, Coffee Shops, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: “What madness! ...all right, so that one’s actually true. But the cows didn’t have wings.”
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6
Collections: The Hanged Man Holiday Exchange 2020





	Flying Cows Over Minrathous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enigmalea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/gifts).



> For enigmalea, who mentioned being eager for "coffee shop AU fluff please?" and that sort of thing is exactly my jam. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Many thanks and much praise to the best beta reader I could possibly want, whom I cannot identify because it'll make me very obvious.

The barista was absolutely too smug to be endured.

Maxwell hated the bastard. Every time he stopped at the Flying Cow for a coffee, it seemed, this smarmy mustachioed Vint was behind the counter, doodling little creations in the foam of somebody’s frilly drink. And he was always _smirking_ , like he knew something absolutely delicious about the person who was going to be receiving his pretentious artistry but was keeping all the details firmly under wraps.

He was handsome, which helped exactly nothing. If anything it made the whole thing worse. Because clearly, the guy was aware of precisely how attractive he was - to women, to other men, probably to household appliances if they were given enough time to think about it - and basked in the glory of knowing that someone was admiring him at practically every second of the day. It was right there in the confident twinkle in his eyes. 

(Said eyes were a color that Maxwell could not identify. Sometimes the light made them look blue, but other times they seemed a pale grayish-brown. Was grayish-brown even a thing? At least they weren’t purple, which would be utterly intolerable.)

Maxwell, of course, did not spend any time admiring the Vint. _Dorian_ , his name tag proclaimed, as if that was a normal name that normal people went around having. He paid absolutely no attention to the quirk of the other man’s lips, or the curve of his earlobe, or the smooth caramel color of his skin. Definitely not those cheekbones. And if his neck was graceful and his hair was flawlessly styled no matter how much time he spent dealing with steaming coffee machines, well, it certainly never caught Maxwell’s notice.

“Ah, the Marcher,” said the mellifluous voice. Dorian had raised his head, having completed the latest absurdity in foam, and his greeting roused Maxwell from the thoughts that were starting to annoy him with their intrusiveness. “Another black coffee? Or perhaps something a little sweeter this time?”

“Are you always this perky?” In spite of his irritation, he couldn’t help being somewhat amused.

“I don’t think _perky_ is the word I would choose. _Bored_ , usually. _Over-caffeinated_ , occasionally. And always _under-intoxicated_ , but you know how it is - can’t put liquor in the coffee when I’m on the clock.” The mysteriously colored eyes were twinkling again in that maddening way.

“Yes, those corporate demons and their refusal to let us drink through the worst.” Maxwell allowed himself to relax a little.

“Oh! And he smiles! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that on your face before. Careful, wouldn’t want it to crack.”

“You’re unusually lucky today. I don’t normally smile until I have some coffee in me - most people steer clear of me until I’ve had a cup.”

“Well, then, I’ll call this a little personal victory. Excuse me for a moment while I deliver this drink, and then my attention is entirely yours.” 

Interesting. More interesting than Maxwell wanted to admit. Maybe it was just a slow day and Dorian was in need of distraction, but he was pretty certain the man might be flirting and that was new. Worse, he realized, he didn’t entirely mind it.

* * *

It might have been less than a full twenty-four hours later when Maxwell entered the Flying Cow again. 

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” he said, watching Dorian draw what might have been a bear’s face in somebody’s foam.

“Ah, not now, this is very delicate artistry and it requires complete concentration.” He paused, then looked up, mustache quivering with amusement. “I’m joking, of course, multi-tasking is among my many skills. Ask away.” 

“Why is this place called the Flying Cow?” Maxwell felt his lips twitch as he added, “Is that where you get the cream?”

“A joke _and_ a smile, all in the course of less than two days? Don’t I feel special?” He grinned his usual self-satisfied grin before turning his attention back to the coffee art. “It’s a bit of a tongue-in-cheek joke among ‘Vints,’” he explained as he drew. “I suppose it arose mainly thanks to Southerners coming up with such ridiculous tales about Tevinter. Now you hear it as a turn of phrase regarding something unlikely. ‘I’ll see that when I see flying cows over Minrathous’ - meaning, not bloody likely.” 

“Ah, so that one wasn’t true, then?” Maxwell affected a look of disappointment. “Pity. What about the grapes and feathers?”

“Now _that_ is true. Completely true. And also, in regards to the cows, I never said it was untrue - but they didn’t have wings.” 

There was a thoughtful pause. “So the feathers are true, but they didn’t come from the cows?”

“Precisely. You catch on quick.” Dorian chuckled, finishing his work on the coffee. “Now, my dear ser, did you come to order something? Or just for the pleasure of my company? Because I can bend your lovely ears with tales about Tevinter all day if you like, but I’ll at least expect a tip when all is said and done.” 

“Oh. Uh.” Maxwell’s ‘lovely ears’ suddenly felt like they were burning. “One black coffee, please. The usual.”

Dorian tsked, shaking his head. “No sense of adventure,” he lamented as he procured a cup. “Will I ever see the day when you try something different when you come here?” 

“Maybe. I won’t promise anything, but… there’s always tomorrow.”

Great, now he was flirting _back_.

* * *

This continued for a week. Stupid questions, admittedly amusing answers, and yet another black coffee. Finally, strictly for a change of pace, Maxwell asked for a piece of pie to go with his coffee. “Surprise me,” he said.

He meant the flavor of the pie, or at least he told himself he did.

Dorian, of course, felt the need to react to this with appropriate drama. “Surprise you?” He repeated. “Surprise _you_? My favorite and easiest customer departs from the usual and he wants _me_ to surprise _him_? Messere, I assure you, it is the other way around.” This was accented with a teasingly over-the-top gesture of Dorian clutching his chest. 

“I’m your favorite customer?” Maxwell blinked. He fished around desperately for something to say that would sound cool or charming or at least funny. “Your standards must be low.”

Ah, so this was miserable failure. How glad he was to make its acquaintance.

“In some cases. For instance, my standards for what jobs I take are clearly abysmal. But when it comes to noticing fine things - good wine or rare books or quality clothes, for instance, I’m an excellent judge.” His eyes were especially difficult to identify at the moment; when they glinted like this, color and emotions both seemed to swirl within them. Maxwell sternly reminded himself that staring was not appropriate.

“You must hate my wardrobe, then,” he said nonchalantly. Failure was becoming his best friend, he needed to buy it a drink at this rate. “Though my personal library has some redeeming qualities.”

“Does it now? You make me all sorts of curious, you know. I would be willing to wager it’s a little barren when it comes to Tevinter topics, however. Perhaps I’ll have to gift you a volume or two one of these days, for sheer amusement.” 

“I suppose I could be persuaded to try a Tevinter book. You know. International relations and open mindedness and all that.” This was the dumbest conversation he’d ever had and it was _working_. Maybe he should ask Dorian to put some alcohol in his coffee, because he was entirely too sober for this to be making any kind of sense.

“Maybe one day I can even convince you to try a Tevinter drink. But one must walk before one can run - that’s a Tevinter proverb.” Again his eyes twinkled as he fetched Maxwell’s coffee and a slice of pie that looked like some kind of mixed berry. “In the short term, however, this should suffice. I think it should go well with your coffee - not too sweet, just enough to balance the bitterness of the coffee and cut it with a mildly acidic bite from a few of the berries.” 

“It’s like you know that I don’t want anything too sweet or too bitter. Excellent choice.” Okay, that was… less stupid than some of the other things he’d said. “Sorry, I won’t hold you up from drawing more doodles on people’s drinks.” And he was right back to stupid. Borderline rude, even. He bit his tongue and looked at the pie. “Sorry.”

Dorian, however, laughed. “Not at all. I am an expert ‘doodler’ and coffee is my canvas. Although I prefer to call myself a purveyor of fine artistic beverages; it makes me sound dashing. More dashing than I already am.” 

“Oh, that’s why you’re here? To sound dashing?” Maxwell chuckled. Yeah, this infuriatingly charming Tevinter bastard probably thought he was a moron. “Well, I guess someone’s got to do it, since Maker knows I can’t.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think if we both worked here, we could charm the entire city block and before we knew it, we’d own the place. At the very least, we could live like kings off of the tips we made.” 

“To be honest, I thought you _did_ own the place.”

“If I did, it would be a _far_ more interesting place, I assure you.” He chuckled. “Perhaps I will someday. But for now, I am simply a cog in the machine who has a job thanks to the mercy of some friends back home who invested in a shop and needed someone to doodle in coffee.” 

“Huh.” Maxwell digested that. “You’ll have to tell me more of your story sometime. Sounds like there’s a lot of history to a cog.”

“Enough to fill volumes, believe me. But probably it’s a liquor conversation, not a coffee one, if that makes sense.” 

“Oh, completely.” This was probably the part where he was supposed to suggest a drink, he realized belatedly, but his brain suddenly seemed to forget how the words putting in order thing worked.

Dorian seemed to guess that, if the way his lips twitched was any indicator. But it didn’t seem to deter him. “If you’re ever interested in hearing the full thing sometime…” he said, reaching for a napkin and a pen, “...do let me know.” He scribbled something quickly across the surface and pushed it into Maxwell’s hand. 

“Uh. Sure.” He blinked, realizing that Dorian was walking back to his workstation with very purposeful, put-space-between-them strides which did nothing to make the view unappealing. Not that he was looking. Maxwell looked down at the napkin in his fingers and realized that the inky shapes were in fact numbers. Strung together in the correct order, they were almost definitely a telephone number. 

The smarmy Tevinter bastard with the sculpted mustache and yummy-gossip smirk had given him his telephone number. He took a gulp of his coffee (which was growing precariously close to being cold) to steady his nerves. If he could convince his fingers to put those numbers into his phone in the correct order, he might be able to figure out a coherent text that would maybe somehow make up for the speaking words not working too well.

Maybe he could even ask what color the other man’s eyes actually were.


End file.
